


No More Miracles

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotions, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Feels, Gen, Guilt, His Last Vow Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, hurt comfort, warnings do apply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock came back from the dead twice for John. Apparently three times is too much to ask. </p><p>Written for a prompt- what if Sherlock never called the ambulance to the flat. The two people there with him were medical professionals. Surely they would have noticed? But perhaps not until it was too late. </p><p>Feels abound. Rated for language. NOT CANON COMPLIANT.<br/>Prompt is inside because spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was the worst cab ride ever. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if John was going to refuse to get into the same one as Mary, but seeing the look on Sherlock's face, simply slid in after him.

 

Sherlock was thankful for that. He didn't know how much longer he could stay upright. He was fairly certain he was bleeding internally, if the pain was anything to go by, but the fact that he was no longer hooked up to the morphine drip could have been contributing.

 

Thankfully, the cabbie wasn't one who felt like making idle conversation, and the ride was silent.

Traffic was light, and they made it to the flat in under seven minutes.

 

John went up the stairs first, Mary following.

Sherlock struggled up after them, swearing that each step was worse than the last.

He wondered how his appearance had managed to escape John's attention, but he was rather preoccupied, and Sherlock could forgive him for that. After all, he understood. (He had skipped out of hospital after all, to deal with the mess and the confusion and the general fuck up that had happened.)

He just needed to make it through the conversation, then he could go back to being drugged out of his mind.

In fact, he was rather looking forward to it.

 

He held onto the wall as he made his way into the doorway. Surprisingly, Mrs Hudson was more observant than usual.

“John. Mary! Oh, Sherlock! Oh, good gracious, you look _terrible_.”

In fact, Sherlock might even be shocked because John had failed to notice. This was the same man who somehow managed to find out that he'd broken and reset one of his own fingers. (Making him go to hospital, of course, which was just a waste of time.)

But he was a little busy for that. Far more important things to deal with. Like saving John's marriage.

But he'd need something else to help him deal with that.

He directed his attention back to the landlady.  
“Get me some morphine from your kitchen. I've run out.”  
She looked appalled. “I don't have any morphine!”

Honestly... “Then what _exactly_ is the point of you?” he bit, perhaps a bit more violently than was necessary.  
“What _is_ going on?”  
“ _Bloody_ good question.”  
Sherlock leaned against the door frame more heavily.“The Watsons are about to have a domestic, and fairly quickly, I hope, because we've got work to do.” _And I need to pass out._

John turned away from him, staring at Mary.  
“Oh, I have a better question. Is _everyone_ I've ever met a psychopath?”

Sherlock glanced away for a moment. _What does he want to hear? Right now, what does he need to hear?_ “Yes.” 

On the other side of the room, Mary nodded.

“Good that we've settled that. Anyway, we...”  
“ _SHUT UP!”_ John bellowed, interrupting whatever Sherlock was going to say. He wasn't sure yet. He mostly opened his mouth and hoped. (Pain was surprisingly good at loosening inhibitions.)

Mrs Hudson tutted.   
“And _stay_ shut up, because this is _not_ funny. Not this time.” His tone was low and furious.  
“I didn't say it was funny,” Sherlock replied. He released his one hand from the door frame and leaned against the other side, attempting to stand and appear normal. John needed normal.  
He glared at his wife. “You. What have I ever done... hmm?... my whole life... to deserve you?”  
“ _Everything,_ ” Sherlock breathed. John turned back to stare at him, his gaze murderous.  
“Sherlock, I've told you... shut up.” 

John took a few steps closer.  
“Oh, I mean it, seriously. _Everything_ –  everything you've ever done is what you did.”

He winced internally, knowing how that was coming across. Like he was blaming John, when that really wasn't the case. He couldn't blame John for this life, for the mistakes he'd made, for the lies he'd believed. Because Sherlock wanted to believe them too.  
“Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine.”

Or about another ten minutes. If he wanted to wait that long.

He kept going.

“You were a doctor who went to war. You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That's me, by the way.” He raised a hand to wave at John. “Hello. Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel.” He pointed at her briefly before his hand fell back down.

Mrs Hudson mostly looked exasperated. “It was my _husband's_ cartel. I was just typing.”  
“ _And_ exotic dancing,” he reminded her.

John glanced at Mrs Hudson as Sherlock said that.  
“Sherlock Holmes, if you've been Youtube-ing...”

Oh god, he couldn't listen to that again. (And honestly, it was just there for the public to see, so...) Sherlock interrupted perhaps a little more forcefully than was needed. “John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people... so is it _truly_ such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?”  
John's voice broke, and Sherlock's heart wanted to break along with it. “But she wasn't supposed to _be_ like that. Why is she like that?” (Perhaps his heart would just break... or stop.)  
He couldn't look at John. He didn't want to. “Because you _chose_ her.”

You chose  _ her.  _

John didn't say anything for a moment.

“Why is everything... _always_... _My FAULT_?!” He kicked a table as he bellowed.  
Mrs Hudson jumped. “Oh, the neighbours!” she fretted. She disappeared down the stairs after that.

Even Sherlock jumped slightly, which he was hard pressed to admit. Mary did not stir. An assassin indeed.

But this was exactly what Sherlock wanted to avoid. He was not blaming John. That was not at all what he was trying to do. But as soon as the words had left his mouth, he knew that they would be misconstrued. And Sherlock wasn't sure if he was going to stay conscious long enough to fix it.

So he pressed forward. Priorities. Triage.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“John, listen. Be calm and answer me. What _is_ she?”

“My lying wife.”

 _Besides that John. Think. Look where we are. Look at what she is. I know you can do it, even though you may not want to._ “No. What is she?”

John didn't break his gaze. “The woman who's carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her?”

Mary didn't flinch, she just kept looking at John. She was stronger than Sherlock thought possible. 

“No. Not in this flat; not in this room.” John was still facing away from him, but Sherlock knew he was beginning to understand. Knew that he would be smiling that terrifying smile that meant he was absolutely pissed. He still went on. “Right here, right now, what _is_ she?”

“Okay. _Your_ way. _Always_ your way.” He cleared his throat and pulled a desk chair over. “Sit.”

“Why?” she asked, her face still blank.

“Because that's where they sit,” he hissed. “The people who come in here with their stories. Th-the clients – that's all _you_ are now, Mary. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk... and this is where we sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not.”

 

He threw himself in his own chair, which had been returned. Sherlock wondered if John knew where it had gone, and why it returned. How it returned. (Some questions were better left unasked, and therefore unanswered.)

Sherlock collected himself, and walked carefully to his own, lowering himself in gingerly.

They both sat and waited to see what Mary would do.

After a moment, she went to the chair, plopped in it, adjusted her coat, smoothed down her pants, and waited.   
  


Mary set a flash drive on the table next to John. AGRA. Her initials.

John didn't even look shocked any more, he just looked resigned.

Mary spoke again. “Everything about who I was is on there. If you love me, don't read it in front of me.”  
John raised one hand slightly. “Why?” _Indeed,_ Sherlock thought, _why should he care, after all that she's done to him._  
“Because you won't love me when you've finished... and I don't want to see that happen.”

It hurt Mary to say that. Anyone could see that.  _ But was it actually, or was she that good at acting? _

John took it without another word, swiping it off the table and tucking it away in his pocket.

“How much do you know?” This was directed at Sherlock.

 

He struggled briefly for a moment with how to phrase it. He was growing short of breath, and just hoped they didn't notice how short his sentences were.

He winced on one of the words, but neither of them seemed to be very alarmed, which he was thankful for. This wasn't about him.

 

They spoke to each other, ignoring him for at least some part.

 

He tuned back in at the mention of Magnussen, and the shooting.

“...like Magnussen  _ should _ be killed. That's why there are people like me.”

“Perfect. So that's what you were? An assassin? How could I  _ not _ see that?” He was sarcastic. When John got angry, he turned sarcastic and  _ smiled.  _ It was terrifying. Like some sort of wild cat that was about to pounce, grinning at its meal, knowing it couldn't escape.

“You  _ did _ see that.... and you married me. Because he's right.” Mary's voice changed, softer, like she was admitting a secret. “It's what you like.”

Sherlock winced internally at that. Or maybe it was external as well. He'd been shot, for heaven's sake. He could wince if he damn well pleased.

But Mary wasn't really helping. Because they were both right, but the words... language was the source of all misunderstanding. Because it wasn't John's fault. It wasn't John's fault that he was addicted to adrenaline and action. It wasn't his fault he fell in love with Mary. Hell, even Sherlock had fallen for Mary. He wanted her to make John happy, something that he often failed to do.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock told her he'll take the case. _After he gets out of hospital of course. Again._

  
“Why would you help me?”

“Because... you saved my life.”

And it was important for John to know that. He needed to trust Mary again.

“Sor-sorry, what?”

  
Sherlock explained what happened in the office.

He looked to Mary. “Have I missed anything?”

It was John who spoke. “How did she save your life?”

“She phoned the ambulance.”

He sounded affronted. “ _I_ phoned the ambulance.”

“She phoned first. You didn't find me for another five minutes. Left to you, I would have died. The average arrival time for a London ambulance is... eight minutes.”

He glanced at his watch. “I suspect if you call one now it won't make it, but you may as well,” he said weakly. _Perhaps he'd made a fatal error..._

John's head shot up at that. “What,” he said sharply.

“I believe I'm bleeding internally,” Sherlock breathed, holding one arm to his abdomen.

John's eyes surveyed him rapidly, and his gaze darkened. “Fuck, of course you are. How did I miss that.” He got to his feet and pressed a hand to Sherlock's head. “Down to the ground with you. Call an ambulance,” he barked at Mary. She rose to the task without so much as a word. Smart move on her part.

 

Sherlock groaned as John shifted him to the ground. The pain was growing, and moving only made it worse. Surely if it got much worse he could just pass out.

If only.

“Ask for morphine,” he whispered.

John frowned at him. “What?” he asked, leaning in.

“Ask them to bring morphine.”

John rolled his eyes, but nodded to Mary all the same, who had somehow managed to hear Sherlock.

 

There were so many important things Sherlock had to let John know. In case. Because eight minutes was an impossibly long time.

He breathed around the pain for a moment before he had enough air to speak. “I don't blame you. It's not your fault.”


	4. Chapter 4

John frowned at him. _Is there not enough blood getting to his brain? Well, besides the obvious. But was he really that confused?_

“What do you mean?” John asked him.

“You don't choose who you fall in love with,” he murmured.

John startled. “You don't blame me for falling in love with Mary? For god's sake Sherlock, this whole thing is my fault-”

“No,” Sherlock said sharply, and John could see that sudden action had pained him.

“I should have seen it,” John sighed.

Sherlock shook his head. “I didn't _want_ to see it,” he whispered, even more faintly.

“What?” John asked, fingers curled around the pulse in Sherlock's wrist. It was no longer there; his blood pressure was too low. His other hand moved to Sherlock's neck.

“The truth,” he gasped. “One more deduction than I was expecting.” He smiled weakly. “Again.” His eyes closed. “I liked her,” he murmured.

John's hand moved from Sherlock's neck to poke at his cheeks. “Hey,” he ordered. “Open your eyes back up.”

Sherlock blinked sluggishly, but his eyes did remain open, although unfocused and distant.

“...can trust her,” he mumbled.

“I can trust Mary?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded slightly.

“Sherlock, she shot you.”

His face twisted slightly.

“Mixed messages, I grant you, but-”

He broke off as he was overcome with pain.

Sherlock gasped for breath. John could only look on helplessly, cursing himself for not noticing earlier.

He was bleeding out for god's sake, and John had been too distracted with his wife to notice.

 

The pain filled grunts lessened, but Sherlock's breathing was still rapid and shallow. If possible, he was even paler than before. John could only wonder how much blood he'd lost. It could be a lot of fluid, fluid that wasn't in Sherlock's arteries to supply his stupid big brain.

 

John squeezed Sherlock's hand to let him know he was still there.

“I don't have anything left in this flat... No first aid supplies.” he muttered. “When I moved out... I didn't think there would be any need...” he shook his head.

Sherlock smiled slightly. Or winced. Perhaps both.

“Why would you?” he breathed, barely loud enough for John to hear.

Perhaps Sherlock was attempting to make him feel better, but it really wasn't working.

 

“Why didn't you say anything?” he asked. “In the cab... we drove by a hospital.”

Sherlock made a motion that could have been the start of a shrug, but either he realized it would be too painful, or forgot halfway through.

“...more 'portant things,” he slurred.

John shook his head. “Nothing is more important. You idiot,” he added fondly.

He glanced at his watch, one hand still on Sherlock's pulse in his neck. It was far too fast, and growing weaker.

_How much longer for the bloody ambulance?_

 

Eight minutes. That's what Sherlock had said.

Mary was still on the phone with the dispatcher, glancing back at them occasionally. John ignored her.

 

Sherlock's breathing became more erratic, his chest barely moving as he tried to heave in air without provoking the agony.

“You have to keep breathing Sherlock,” John reminded him. Because honest to god, he was worried he would stop.

“Hurts,” he exhaled.

“I know. I'm sorry. For everything.”

Sherlock only closed his eyes in an exasperated manner.

“Not... your... fault,” he concluded over three separate breaths.

“I know that,” John scolded him. “Stop talking and just breathe.”

“Havta... forgive... her,” he pressed on, ignoring John's advice. The strain on him was visible.

John had to blink rapidly. Must have been the dust in the air. “That's not for you to worry about,” he told Sherlock sharply. “Now stop it and just rest. The ambulance is going to be here soon and you'll be fine.”

Sherlock smiled, and wisely chose not to use any of his precious breath on insulting John, instead just mouthing the word _liar._

“Don't you dare make me one,” John muttered, pressing harder on his pulse, as though he could make it continue through force of will alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock's eyes fluttered to a close as the sirens approached.

That was roughly around the same time he stopped breathing.

And his heart decided it had enough, for the second time in as many weeks.

 

John had already begun CPR by the time the sirens stopped, and continued while the paramedics arrived in the flat.

“What happened?” the man asked, approaching Sherlock and dropping his large bag to the ground.

“He was shot last week, he had surgical repair of the IVC and a liver laceration. He's in severe hypovolemic shock,” John snapped. “He needs volume and he needs to get to surgery.”

 

The man and woman became a flurry of activity around the two men. John didn't halt compressions as the man stripped away Sherlock's shirt to attach the sticky pads of an AED.

“Sir, I need you to stop,” he told John as the machine announced for everyone to stand clear as it analyzed the rhythm.

John sat back on his heels reluctantly.

The woman was at Sherlock's head with a bag valve mask and oxygen. She too had stopped touching Sherlock, and had moved on to collecting supplies for IV access. John wasn't sure how well that would work. Sherlock's veins were crap at the best of times, and with the abuse he'd probably put them through in the week before he got shot, which ruled out a large number of them for use during the first surgery. Then of course he'd taken those lines out, making those sites nonviable... what was left? John didn't want to think about it.

The machine announced that a shock was not advised.

John swallowed, but resumed compressions. “I'm a doctor,” he told them, as if they cared. Having someone do the compressions meant they could busy themselves with other things, the woman oxygenating Sherlock before she slid a tube in his throat, and the man down at Sherlock's shin, swabbing a patch with alcohol to stick a needle into the bone. Better than veins that would be collapsed and impossible to find.

John continued with his compressions, counting. Counting.

_Don't you dare die on me Sherlock. You've done that twice already and I don't think I can survive a third time._

His set of 30 finished, and the woman told him to wait for a moment. John knew what she was doing; he'd done it far too many times before. The vocal cords moved too much during compressions, and an ET tube couldn't be inserted between them. Compressions had to be stopped, which John hated. Every second meant no oxygen was going to Sherlock's brain.

Thankfully, she was quick, and it was less than thirty seconds. _Sherlock has held his breath for longer than that,_ John told himself, but it was little comfort.

At Sherlock's feet, the man was drawing back blood in the line, and flushing it.

John watched him push fluids out of the corner of his eye, not straying from his compressions.

The woman taped the tube down to Sherlock's face.

She passed drugs to the man without him even asking for them, all in between squeezing the bag to provide oxygen to Sherlock's lungs, so the blood John was pumping could pick it up and take it to all those wonderful organs that Sherlock shunned in favour of his brain.

_Transport._


	6. Chapter 6

Two minutes passed in cycles of 30 and the machine beeped and told them to step back, analyzing rhythm.

 

Shock not advised.

 

John resumed compressions, knowing that it wasn't abnormal. Sherlock needed more volume. His heart wasn't going to work if there was nothing for it to pump.

 _It's only logical, John,_ he could hear Sherlock say, and John wanted to slap the logic out of him in favour of something else. Like hope.

 

There were more medications and IV pushes of fluid, and the woman palpated veins in between her rhythmic squeezes. She didn't look pleased with any of them. John didn't blame her.

 

Two more minutes in cycles of 30 passed.

John held his breath.

 

Shock advised.

 

He exhaled.

A shock was delivered.

The female paramedic felt at Sherlock's carotid.

“We've got a pulse,” the woman breathed. “Let's go.”

 

In less than a minute, Sherlock was packaged to go.

John was impressed and grateful.

He helped them carry things down the stairs to the waiting ambulance in the street, lights still flashing.

 

He stood, stunned for a moment, outside the ambulance as Sherlock was loaded in.

“I'm coming,” he blurted. “I have to come.”

_I have to be there. In case._

Because the first two times he couldn't be. So if Sherlock was to die this time, _he better not be, that bastard,_ John was going to be there.

Besides, they could use the help.

She nodded.

 

He hopped in the ambulance without another word to Mary, who was standing in the doorway.

Quite frankly, he didn't care about her at the moment.

They set off with sirens.

 

Sherlock was hooked up to an ECG without removing the AED pads. John was given the job of bagging him after explaining his history.

“I was an army doctor,” he explained shakily, still on edge because _dammit Sherlock you can't just keep doing this to me._ “Three years in Afghanistan, veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart's Hospital.”

The woman nodded briskly at him.

“Must have seen a lot then,” she commented, glancing at monitors and pushing fluids and drugs accordingly.

“Far too much,” he heard himself say.

“He's lucky to have you. I'm sure you know how much better the odds are for witnessed arrests.”

John only nodded mutely. _Still not good enough..._

The woman was cautiously optimistic. He was satting well, his heartbeat was still too fast and irregular, but there, and his blood pressure was constant, albeit too low. Of course, they didn't want to push excessive fluids into him and screw up his clotting factors. That wouldn't be any good.

 

“He coded during surgery,” he blurted, not entirely sure why he felt it needed to be said.

The woman glanced at him and nodded. “He's a fighter then.”

“Yes,” John breathed. That he was.

An annoying stubborn bastard, but that equated _fighting,_ such an important thing when talking about severe injuries.

Sherlock was a fighter. He was going to give John a run for his money, just because he could, but in the end, he would fight and fight and _fight._

The thought set John's mind slightly more at ease.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock arrested again a minute out from the hospital.

John dumbly looked up from bagging and holding Sherlock's hand.

The woman was pushing fluids into the catheter in his leg.

“Do you want me to do compressions?” she asked kindly. John shook his head.

It was harder to do in the ambulance, it was more cramped, but he could manage. _He could manage anything for Sherlock._

 

John watched as she pushed drugs, and took over bagging. After the round of 30, she held him off for a second, watching the rhythm.

John almost wished he couldn't read ECGs.

He started up again.

_Ignorance was bliss._

 

Sherlock was whisked away as soon as they arrived at the hospital, a nurse jumping on the stretcher to do compressions.

 

John hesitated for a moment before following them. _Because he was going to be there, come hell or high water._

(He wasn't sure which was which.)

 

He stood outside the room where the code was happening, a flurry of well orchestrated movements. A central line was inserted into his right internal jugular (couldn't use the left, since the idiot had pulled that one out earlier in the day, honestly, if he was planning to skip out of hospital and rebleed, it would be nice if he left his line in, just for the sake of the medics), the one in his bone all but discarded in favour. Blood and fluids were hung in a rapid infuser. All the while Sherlock's vital functions were taken over by hands, hands to compress, hands to breathe. Hands pushing drugs and fluids and palpating and examining. Hands taking notes, hands of clocks, ticking ever onward.

 

John didn't know what to do with his own. Pray, perhaps?

Somehow he didn't think Sherlock would appreciate it.

 

Instead he just clenched them. Unclenched them. Clenched them again. Flexed his fingers. Dug his nails into his palm.

He couldn't do anything else.

So he just watched.

 

He'd seen a number of codes before, and generally speaking, they didn't get the patient back, unless there was an underlying cause that could be corrected.

And that was the case here, right? Sherlock just needed volume, and then his heart would go back to pumping.

 

_Unless it's been too long. Unless the volume won't matter now, because he's gone past the point where any amount of fluids that are pumped into him will help. Because his kidneys would have been the first to go, and his brain, oh god his brain, there was no telling the damage it could have sustained from the prolonged hypotension and poor oxygenation._

 

He told his brain to shut up, because that sort of thinking wasn't going to help.

 

The resuscitation efforts continued.

 

CPR halted for a moment to examine the rhythm, which John could see on the screen, and wasn't promising.

Compressions resumed, and a nurse shone lights in Sherlock's eyes.

A pit grew in John's stomach. He couldn't see the results, and at this point, probably didn't want to.

Something was said, a reaction noted. There was more discussion.

John could probably have heard it if he tried, but the roar of _Sherlock_ in his ears was too loud.

 

John watched as compressions were halted. The bag was disconnected from the ET tube in Sherlock's mouth.

Everyone stepped back, resigned.

The trauma team leader glanced at the wall, and said something that John didn't want to hear, would have done _anything_ not to hear.

 

“Time of death, 2:21.”

 

_Oh god how perfect._

Doctors began stripping gloves off.

John couldn't breathe.

 

He sank to the ground, his legs no longer containing bones or any useful structures that were conducive to standing.

_Time of death. Sherlock was dead. For real this time, for good, fuck no this couldn't be happening. This wasn't allowed to happen. No._

 

He struggled to his feet.

_Last time they gave up, and he came back._

 

He pushed through the doors, ignoring the arms that tried to hold him back.

He made his way to Sherlock's side, and just stared at him, at his pale face, at the tube that was no longer connected to anything supplying him with oxygen. At the multiple lines that were no longer supplying him fluids and blood _because there was no point._

 

“His pupils are fixed and dilated,” someone told him kindly. “He hadn't had a shockable rhythm since he arrived. He's been in asystole for more than twenty minutes. Despite the volume we put in, we couldn't get a blood pressure. We did all that we could. I'm sorry.”

John knew, somewhere, in the small rational part of his brain that it was true, but the much larger emotional part of him wanted to deny it. That dammit, he was here now, and Sherlock would come back for him, right?

 

_But he can't._

John's legs turned to rubber again, and thankfully someone had placed a stool underneath him, which he gratefully sank on to.

 

He grabbed for Sherlock's hand in amongst the wires and tubes and various other things that the doctors and nurses had accumulated trying to save him.

It was cool.

 

The tears welled up in his eyes then, because he knew it was real.

“You take as long as you need with him,” the voice said again, kindly and softly.

John nodded, blinking to clear his vision.

“Is there anyone we should call? Anyone for you? Anyone for him?”

A hand was placed on his shoulder, and John turned to see the face of a middle-aged woman. _A nurse,_ his brain supplied.

“Oh... erm... his brother... and his parents.”

And Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, but they could wait.

She nodded, patting him once more before slipping out, leaving John alone with Sherlock. With Sherlock's _body._

Because everything he was, was no longer there. All that was left was the transport.

 

John clutched at his hand, hoping against all odds that this was all just a horrible, horrible dream.

He wouldn't be so lucky though.

There was no warmth in the fingers he clutched, no response from the man they belonged to.

 

John belatedly wondered if they should have cracked his chest, but he knew the statistics surrounding that, and it wouldn't have made any difference, not at that point anyway.

Really, Sherlock had died in the flat, when he arrested the first time, bleeding out in between the two people he had been trying to patch up.

 

John wasn't sure if he could ever forgive him for that. Forgive Mary for that. Forgive himself for that.

Probably not.

 

Mary showed up behind him. John didn't know how, or why, but she was there, and he couldn't bear to look at her.

 

“I don't even want... to see you,” he hissed through gritted teeth. In his peripheral vision, she nodded and backed away, disappearing back to wherever she came from.

He couldn't bear to have her near Sherlock, not after all she'd done to him. _Look what you did,_ he wanted to say.

Of course, he didn't.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. A little bit.


	8. Chapter 8

John wasn't sure quite how the nurse managed to get ahold of Mycroft Holmes, but the next time he looked up, there he was, suit intact, umbrella in hand, and somehow looking completely undone. John didn't blame him. He could only imagine his own appearance.

 

Mycroft didn't say anything to John, which surprised him, because he'd expected scathing comments, accusations about what ifs and why nots.

Instead, he sat down on a stool on the other side of Sherlock's bed, and looked thoroughly destroyed.

 

John saw him for the first time, as the older brother that he was, underneath all the government and policies and half truths. He saw Sherlock as a child, needing to be taken care of, and Mycroft complaining with a familiar fondness, but doing it. John saw pirates and Redbeard and fights and growing apart, none of which mattered now that Sherlock was lying still.

 

“Our parents will be arriving in the morning,” he said quietly.

John didn't respond to that. When he did speak, a moment later, it was on an entirely different topic.

“They did everything... we did everything we could.” He shook his head, cursing the tears that were welling up in his eyes again. “I just...” His voice cracked and he _hated_ himself for it. “I'm so sorry,” he managed to say.

Mycroft's eyes were glistening as well. He only nodded at John.

“I know,” he murmured, holding Sherlock's other hand and smoothing down his hair.

 

John felt like he should leave. After all, he wasn't family, and there was something between the brothers that he felt like he wasn't allowed to witness.

But he wasn't sure if he could stand at that point, let alone walk somewhere, so he stayed put, and pretended not to hear Mycroft whispering in his brother's ear.


	9. Chapter 9

The sun came up, and he found himself in the waiting room with Mary. His wife.

_You can trust her,_ Sherlock had said. But look where that had gotten him.

 

“I know that I can't apologize...” she began, and he shook his head. “But I am sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry,” she choked.

John didn't attempt to comfort her.

“He was my best friend,” John said dumbly. “My best friend. I'd only just gotten him back.”

He blinked once, twice.

“He skipped out of hospital to tell me the truth about you. But instead of just telling me, and letting me hate you, he took it upon himself to repair our relationship. He died because he bled out in our flat, telling me that you didn't mean to kill him, that you didn't have a choice.” His voice was bitter. “He died trying to repair the very thing that had broken him.”

“John-” Mary began.

“No,” he snapped. “You don't get to talk. Not anymore. Not right now. Maybe not ever.”

She nodded slightly.

 

They sat in silence for a while longer.

“Mycroft will know,” John said suddenly. It wasn't said to her, she just happened to be there.

Mary, or whatever the hell her name was, nodded. “I know. But Sherlock made sure that he wouldn't have me killed. He said... he couldn't let that happen to the baby.” She sniffed, and John almost wanted to hold her. _Almost. Not quite._

John didn't know what he wanted Mycroft to do.

(A tiny part of him wanted Mycroft to kill them both, just because everything would go away then. He suspected that wouldn't happen.)

But he knew he didn't want Mycroft to kill the baby. And he didn't think Mycroft would do that. Maybe.

So Mary was safe (being a relative term) for now.

John didn't say anything.

 

Mary asked him if he wanted to go home, because she could go somewhere else.

John didn't want to speak to her, but sort of had to. He declined, and sent her home, saying he would find somewhere else. He couldn't go home now. Not after... this.

 

Someone had to tell Mrs Hudson.

But the woman didn't need to be told when John stood at her door. Not with that expression. Not when he looked so completely destroyed and broken.

He held her as she cried for a while. He did his best not to, trying to be strong. After a while he excused himself, saying that he hadn't slept all night.

She sniffed, and told him she understood.

 

He slept in Baker Street. His bedroom was the same as it was before, minus the things he'd taken with him when he moved out, unable to bear living among the memories. He'd always planned to come back for his other things, but never could.

It was probably the same reason he could never bring himself to visit Mrs Hudson. She was right, of course, he could have called... but it was all so hard, and maybe if he didn't acknowledge any of that happening, he could pretend. (Of course he couldn't.)

 

He didn't really sleep.

Even when sleeping with Mary, he'd still have dreams, of Afghanistan, of Sherlock falling, of everything that had ever gone wrong with his life.

He didn't think he slept more than an hour the whole time.

He got up sometime in the late afternoon, possibly even more exhausted than when he went to bed.

 

John wasn't sure why he got up. What he was supposed to do.

His life had been torn down in pieces around him over the last week or so, and nothing could ever be the same. Even if Sherlock had been there to patch things up, glue could only do so much.

 

John thought briefly of his gun.

 

Because honest to god, he had fucked it up big time. He may have thought things were fucked up before, but not on this level. Before, his pregnant assassin wife had not shot and killed his best friend.

No, definitely not on this level.

 

But there was the baby. And that was the only thing keeping him from getting a taxi right now, and going home to the closet. (They both knew it was there. Mary had expressed her dislike for it before, which he could almost laugh about now. Where did she keep her gun?)

But that was it.

 

He honestly didn't know what he was going to do. Sherlock told him to trust Mary, but that was before he went and  _ died  _ on John. And with Sherlock in such a state, how could he trust anything the man said?

_ Because he's Sherlock bloody Holmes,  _ something whispered to him. 

_ Was,  _ he corrected. Not anymore.

 

He'd used up his miracle, begging at Sherlock's grave for him to not be dead.

And he got him back, for a year more, and now he was gone. For real. John had watched the entire time, there was no room for tricks, no body doubles, no faking that.

No more miracles.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft showed up shortly after John got up. John didn't even care how.

He sat on the couch. John was thankful for that. It meant he could sink into his own chair, and Sherlock's wouldn't be disturbed. Even the thought of that happening unsettled John, when less than a day before, Sherlock had sat in that chair, bleeding out, while trying to act as normal as possible, knowing it was what they needed.

God, he was an idiot.

 

Mycroft looked exhausted, like he wasn't even pretending anymore.

“Our parents have been taken to my home. As you can imagine, they are destroyed. Mummy is on the war path for someone to blame, and believe me, if she ever finds out...” He sighed heavily. “Let's hope it never comes to that.”

John stood up, his back to Mycroft, staring at Billy on top of the fireplace.

He should probably offer the man tea, but he didn't feel like it.

“Of course, they both wondered how he managed to survive the initial wound and yet die more than a week later,” Mycroft added bitterly. “Something that I couldn't answer.”

“He shouldn't have left,” John whispered.

Behind him, he could hear Mycroft growing impatient. “What did you say?”

“He shouldn't have left the hospital. He would have been fine if he'd just stayed in the hospital. Why couldn't you make him stay?” John shouted at the motionless man. “And even after he left! Why couldn't you find him before he'd lost that much blood?”

Mycroft didn't flinch. He glanced up at John. “He came back to the flat with you. Why didn't you notice the state he was in, _Doctor_ Watson?”

John looked visibly pained by that statement.

“Believe me,” he whispered roughly, “I keep asking myself the same question.”

He sank into his chair. The same chair that had somehow reappeared while Sherlock was supposed to be in hospital.

He wondered if the man himself had moved it, which was incredibly stupid, in his state.

He supposed now he'd never know.

 

On the couch, Mycroft leaned forward.

“In the end,” he said carefully, “My brother could not be made to do anything he didn't want to, or found if he wished to stay hidden. Additionally, he was exceptional at hiding the truth, no matter how obvious it was.”

John realized that was as close as an apology as he was going to get from Mycroft Holmes.

“If Sherlock wanted to leave that hospital, there was no power on earth that could have stopped him. If Sherlock did not want to be found, he would not be. And if Sherlock hid the signs of his declining state from you, it was because he did not wish for you to see them.”

“I should have seen them,” John whispered.

Mycroft heard him, of course.

“It doesn't matter now, either way,” Mycroft said softly. John heard the unspoken words.

_It doesn't matter now because Sherlock is dead and nothing can change that._

 

“Now, about your wife.”

John looked at him sadly.

“Although, she's technically _not_ your wife. Are you aware marriages are not legally binding if one of the participants is using a false name?”

John blinked. Before he could even open his mouth to ask, Mycroft was already answering.

“Of course I know she's not who she says she is,” Mycroft scoffed. “I also know that she's the one who shot my brother. You may think me to be oblivious, but I assure you Doctor Watson, I am anything but.”

John chose not to remind him of Sherlock's disappearance.

“When did you find out?” he whispered.

“Not until recently,” Mycroft said with a frown. “If I'd known before the wedding, I certainly would have put a stop to it.”

“Of course,” John sighed under his breath.

Mycroft sighed. “It would have caused you so much less pain,” he admitted. “So much less pain for everyone involved.”

_And Sherlock wouldn't be dead._

“But we shall continue to call her your wife for now, just to make things simpler. The question remains, what are we going to do about her?”

John looked up at Mycroft.

“What do you mean _do about her?_ You're not having her killed. I know what she did to Sherlock, but I can't help it, I do still have _some_ sort of feelings for her, _and she's carrying my child,_ ” he hissed.

“I am aware of that,” he said patiently. “It was not my intention to have her killed, unless you think that's what should happen, then I shall take it into consideration.”

John gaped at him. “What? No!”

“Then I repeat, what are we going to do about her?”

John shook his head. “I don't know. It's too soon.”

And it was. The ache of Sherlock's death _again_ was too present.

“I just don't know,” he repeated, rubbing his head.

 

He closed his eyes to think.

 

He was angry at Mary. That much he did know. Not just for shooting _(killing)_ Sherlock, but for lying to him. From the moment they met, she had lied and lied. He wondered if he even knew anything about her, who she actually was, or if her entire personality was a show.

That combined with her shooting _(killing)_ Sherlock, and he didn't know if he could ever forgive her.

Sherlock wanted him to, but that was asking an awful lot. At least he didn't make John promise on his deathbed or something. Not that Sherlock would ever do that; too cliche. Still. He couldn't help but feel like he was letting Sherlock down either way.

He could forgive the woman who shot, and ultimately led to the death of Sherlock, or he could remain angry at her, essentially throwing away everything that Sherlock had worked to prevent in the hours before his death.

 

He couldn't win.

(Again, he went back to perhaps Mycroft just killing everyone, because it would be so much less complicated, but Sherlock would be utterly _pissed_ if he knew that.)

 

He knew that Mary couldn't go unpunished. That much was certain. Whatever happened before he met her, whatever happened when she was AGRA, John couldn't focus on that. That was a different person.

But Mary Watson had shot Sherlock Holmes. There had to be some justice in the world for that.

He just wasn't sure what.

 

He also knew that he and Mary had to talk. Talk through some of it, work some things out. Even if not for their own sake, but for Sherlock. For what Sherlock had done for them.

Not to mention the baby.

 

The baby was the biggest problem. Not so much a problem, because John was thrilled when he first realized Mary was pregnant, and was still overjoyed at the thought, but god damn, it made everything more complicated.

 

John sighed, and opened his eyes. Mycroft was still there. John hadn't expected him to go away, but it would have been nice.

“I need time,” he said slowly. “I need time to think this through, to talk with her.”

_I need to wait until after the funeral, because everything is too raw, too exposed, and I can't stand any more pain right now. Because right now, it's not about her, it's about Sherlock, and I can't ruin my mourning for him by worrying over her._

 

Mycroft seemed to understand.

He glanced sadly at John. “I'll let you know the details of the funeral. Call me, any time.”

He left, his umbrella dragging mournfully on the ground.


	11. Chapter 11

John found himself at the door in front of Mary.

 

He pushed past her and settled on the couch. She stood in front of him, unsure of what he wanted. Hell, he didn't even know what he wanted.

“You can sit,” he mumbled.

She did, on the very far end of the couch, perched as a cat would be, ready to scurry off without any hesitation.

He motioned for her to come closer, and she curled herself into his embrace, even if it was a bit stiff.

They were both quiet for a minute. She was waiting for him to speak first, John knew that, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

So she spoke.

 

“I never meant to kill him,” she whimpered.

John's arm was wrapped around her, but he didn't know what to say.

“Please John, you have to believe that. I never meant...” she broke off, crying quietly.

“I'm trying to,” he admitted. “I'm trying to, but knowing that you lied to me... _so much..._ ” his voice was hoarse, but he continued. “I'm not sure if I can.”

 

“I love you,” she whispered.

John looked away. “I'm not sure I do anymore,” he admitted.

And it hurt to admit, but it was the truth. The woman he'd fallen in love with, the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, the woman he married and slept next to and conceived a child with- she wasn't real. He was in love with the idea of the woman she used to be, but he wasn't sure he could ever believe that they were the same person. Not after what had happened, what she'd done. And it hurt so much to realize that, because they looked the same, and they spoke the same, and they had the same hair and eyes and smile, but they weren't the same person.

 

Something between them had been irreparably broken, and even Sherlock Holmes couldn't fix that. And John hated that, because it felt like a betrayal to Sherlock's dying wish, but it was true.

Because it wasn't so much that Sherlock had died, because that, _that was unforgivable in its own right,_ but it was because she had lied. John could never trust her again, because trust had to be earned.

 

Mary Elizabeth Watson (Morstan) had never really existed. Sherlock was right, she was only a facade.

 

And now that John knew the houses were empty he could never look at them the same way again.

 

“I don't want to lose you,” she murmured, her voice soft like fingertips tracing his spine.

John swallowed. _I don't want to lose you either._ “That's not up to you,” he told her. “It stopped being your decision when you started shooting people,” he continued, getting up and leaving.

She remained seated on the couch as he left, flipping his coat collar up against the cold.

 


	12. Chapter 12

He still didn't sleep that night, but laid in his bed and mostly just stared into the darkness.

 

For a second, he could forget that Sherlock had died. That he wasn't breathing any longer. That no more deductions would stream from his mouth like knowledge itself personified. That no more would a coat collar be turned up to look cool with his cheekbones. His beloved scarf would not flap in the breeze as he stood at cold and windy crime scenes in the middle of winter. There would be no more fluffing of his hair, no more ridiculous disguises or awful accents.

Sherlock Holmes was no more.

But for a second, he could forget all that, forget the pain that was keeping him from sleeping.

 

And it was an awful physical ache, somewhere deep in his chest that he didn't know the anatomy of.

 

Because even if he managed to forget, even for a second, when he did remember, it would be that much worse. John wasn't sure how long he could withstand the relentless waves, how long before he would crumple beneath the grief.

 

_How had he made it through the first time?_

 

By moving out. Drinking too much. Working too much. Ignoring anything that had been in his previous life with Sherlock.

By meeting someone.

 

That... really wasn't an option this time.

 

And there wasn't even a chance this time. Sherlock was dead. Really.

No more miracles for John, no more standing at his grave and begging him, _one more miracle._ John had seen him die, held his hand, felt for a pulse, looked for any vital signs, anything at all. There was nothing.

Even he had to admit there was no way.

No one knocked him down on a bike, there was no ambulance bay in his way, no tricks. Not this time.

 

What if though? What if he could just go back to the life he had with Mary, back to before Sherlock was alive for the second time? What if he could just propose to her that night in the restaurant without being interrupted? What if they got married, and Greg was his best man, and Sholto died at the wedding? Would the wedding have even been like that without Sherlock there to plan it? Would John have ever found out about his wife's secrets? Would John ever have heard about Magnussen, other than to recognize that he owned newspapers? Would Mary have had the child, and they lived happily ever after?

 

_What if._

 

He could have that, even now, he supposed. He could forgive Mary, just like Sherlock wanted. They could have their child, and live their life together. Their normal, mundane life.

Except neither of them would be able to live like that.

Both of them, _bored._

John would go back to beating up junkies, and Mary... would she go back to breaking into the offices of blackmailers, threatening them with a gun, shooting anyone who got in her way?

 

To protect him, she would.

But John wasn't a child, or a weeping flower, or someone who needed to be protected. He didn't need to be saved. Not by Mary at least.

He already had someone for that, except he was now lying in a morgue somewhere.

 

Mary couldn't be that person. John wouldn't let her.

 

He supposed, he'd already made that decision. His previous girlfriends were right, it would always be Sherlock Holmes.

Mary had been more understanding than all of them, but perhaps that was part of the act. For Sherlock to believe her, he had to like her.

John would never know.

But facts were facts, and he couldn't deny that in the end, it would always be Sherlock.

 

So he would forgive Mary. But he would not protect her from Mycroft, or even worse, _Mummy Holmes._

He would protect their child to the ends of the earth and back, he would do anything for it, but after Mary gives birth... John doesn't want to see her again.

Mary would have to pay for her crimes. Not for AGRA's crimes, but for the crimes she committed as Mary Elizabeth Watson, the crimes she committed in the name of John Hamish Watson, the crimes he never wanted, would never have wished upon anyone.

 

Sherlock would often say _(there was the ache again)_ that crimes committed in the name of love were the most irrational. This was the man who condoned marriage.

Who claimed that it had 'zero importance in the grand scheme of things', which was completely true. So why did he literally risk his life in order to repair theirs?

Sherlock was mistaken at the wedding. He was the romantic, not John.

The idiot.

 

After giving birth, Mary would receive her punishment. Breaking and entering, assault, second degree murder. Mary would be in prison for a while. Or she might disappear. John wouldn't put that past Mycroft.

But he doesn't want her to die.

He doesn't want their child to grow up without a mother and without an uncle Sherlock. Not both. One can't be helped anymore, but one can. Mary can still be there. The child will need that.

 

Which is what John tells himself. That he's not making these decisions for himself, not anymore, but for the unborn child.

That's what parenthood is, isn't it? Making hard decisions, not to benefit yourself, but to benefit someone else.

 

No, that was what family was. What _love_ was.

 

And that was exactly what Sherlock did for John.

 

John would never not have that ache deep in his chest. He would never stop feeling betrayed by the woman he once called his wife. He would never stop regretting things he didn't see and things he could have done.

 

But he would be strong, because he was going to be a father.

 

He was going to be brilliant. He had loads of practice. He had the best teacher in the world.

_And he knew just the perfect name._

It would remind him of the hurt every single day. But it would also bring him so much joy, just like it did when it belonged to someone else.

 

And that was a good sort of hurt.

There would no more miracles for Sherlock Holmes.

But John could think of any number of them for Sherlock Watson.

**Author's Note:**

> PROMPT: Because it really annoys me that John and Mary, who are not only supposed to be Sherlock's best friends but also medical professionals, didn't notice or care that he was getting weaker and clearly needed medical attention from rushing around London with a hole in his chest all to try to fix their marriage.
> 
> So my prompt is; Sherlock didn't call an ambulance when he got to 221b and he just collapses during the conversation and they're not able to save him in time. He dies there in 221b between the both of them.
> 
> Major guilt and grief from John and Mary follows.


End file.
